by Akart, Bobby
“Is it too late, Mr. Trowbridge?” Tom asked.
“Maybe, maybe not. One will have—” He stopped speaking as Harris returned. Tom and Donna stood out of the way as the aide whispered in Trowbridge’s ear.
“Ah, yes,” said Trowbridge with a grave chuckle. “I know her well. What is her destination?”
Harris leaned in to whisper.
Trowbridge nodded his approval. “Very appropriate, I suppose.”
Harris then added, “Sir, your son-in-law just called. I took the liberty of telling him you were unavailable.”
“That’s fine. I’ll get back to him in due time. First, please make the arrangements for our friends so they can be on their way.”
Tom and Donna’s demeanor picked up considerably at the prospect of getting home soon.
Donna spoke first. “Sir, I can’t thank you enough for seeing us like this and especially for your help.”
“I’m glad to help. Commander, may I assume that your wife is aware of our relationship?”
Tom sheepishly nodded, honestly afraid that he would be rebuked for betraying the confidential association they’d established.
Donna spoke up. “Sir, my husband has kept a secret, your secret, for many years until about an hour ago. Even as he felt the need to explain how he knew you and why he felt like he could call upon you for help, Tom withheld all the details. I will never pry into his business, nor will I expect him to divulge anything to me.”
Trowbridge chuckled. “You are a good soldier, Mrs. Shelton.”
“And, sir, may I thank you for helping us put our daughters through college and our grandkids into private schools.”
Trowbridge had a hearty laugh at Donna’s candor. “Commander, you’ve married well. I hope you have the ability to take care of this fine woman during the times of turmoil that are headed our way.”
“I do, Mr. Trowbridge. In fact, Donna and I have planned ahead for the type of collapse that you alluded to a moment ago. May I tell you about it?”
“By all means,” said Trowbridge, who was genuinely enjoying his visit with the Sheltons.
Tom began to explain to Trowbridge the concept of the Haven and how it was designed to provide safety to people like them who wanted to avoid the social unrest that might spread across the nation during a time of crisis. During Tom’s explanation, Trowbridge listened intently, and his smile grew bigger as Tom passionately explained his belief that the Haven was one of the best investments they’d ever made.
Harris returned and provided his boss a simple nod. Unexpectedly, Trowbridge asked Tom and Donna to leave the room for a moment and instructed Harris to close the door behind them.
Puzzled by the sudden change in demeanor, the Sheltons waited outside in the hallway, staring mindlessly at Long Island Sound, where boats traversed the water like it was any other day.
Several minutes later, the door to the bedroom opened, and Harris invited them in again. Trowbridge was sitting more upright now, with a Mont Blanc pen and a small lap desk with stationery spread across it.
Tom and Donna approached, their eyes searching for an answer as to why they had been dismissed.
Trowbridge adopted a more serious tone. “Tom, Harris has made the arrangements for you. They are unconventional, but they will solve your problem, mostly.”
Tom was humble and apologetic. “Thank you, sir. I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”
“Nothing is trouble for me. There’s only should I, or shouldn’t I. You both will be guests of the USS Virginia, which leaves Groton at thirteen hundred hours.”
“A nuclear submarine, sir?” questioned Tom. “With all due respect, the commander—”
Trowbridge cut him off. “Is within our employ. The matter is arranged, and your late addition to the ship’s manifest allows less time to scrutinize your presence.”
“Okay, thank you, sir,” said Tom, who immediately felt guilty for questioning his benefactor.
“There is one more thing, Commander,” said Trowbridge as he handed a letter to Tom, who maintained eye contact. “I have provided you an accommodation. I need something else from you in return.”
“This letter?”
“Yes. Please deliver this letter for me. Its contents are eyes only for the recipient. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course, sir.” Tom turned over the letter to see a name scribbled on the front. “But, sir, how will I know this person and where to find her?”
“You’ll know, Commander,” replied Trowbridge. He appeared tired and he slowly slid down in his bed as Harris removed the writing tray. “Mrs. Shelton, it was a pleasure meeting you. Commander, thank you for your service to our country, and to me. Godspeed, Patriot.”
Tom’s face turned ashen as the parting words hit him like a hammer. “Um, to you as well, sir.”
Harris didn’t hesitate to intervene, and the Sheltons were hastily removed from Trowbridge’s bedroom. Without saying another word, they were led down the staircase to the front door, where Harris gave them their instructions.
“Our driver will take you to NSB New London. The commanding officer of the Virginia will be waiting for you with your credentials. Safe travels.”
Tom and Donna were hastily escorted out the door, and once in the cool, crisp air, they both exhaled from holding their breath during the whirlwind exit.
Alone for the first time, they waited as the Escalade returned to pick them up. Donna leaned over to Tom and asked, “Who’s the letter addressed to?”
He read the name. “Meredith Cortland.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
New Year’s Day
Cape May, New Jersey
Angela offered to drive the first leg of the trip back to Richmond, enabling Tyler to gather information from their Kenwood portable transceiver. The children had fallen asleep again, allowing Tyler and Angela to talk freely for the first time about what was happening around the country.
The stereo system Tyler had installed in the ’74 model Bronco had been fried by the EMP. He lamented that he didn’t have the original AM radio that was standard equipment in the truck. After his father’s truck had been given to him as a teen, he’d naturally upgraded the sound system first. The upgrade was susceptible to the enormous pulse of energy generated by the EMP, ruining its components.
The truck, on the other hand, was running perfectly. As they started their trip, they had to drive around the perimeter of the massive military base at Fort Dix. The unusual sight of the orange-and-white Bronco making its way down the country roads was only surpassed by the groupings of military vehicles departing the base en route to the major population centers of Trenton and nearby Philadelphia.
Tyler explained the president had followed the advice of the Congressional EMP Commission led by Dr. Peter Pry, Admiral James Woolsey, and others. Since the 1980s, when Speaker Newt Gingrich began to warn Congress about the EMP threat, the nation’s lawmakers only paid lip service to following the commission’s recommendations but were unwilling to allocate the necessary funding to protect the power grid.
When the president took office, one of his first actions was to reconstitute the EMP Commission, and upon the recommendations of Dr. Pry and Admiral Woolsey, he ordered the nation’s armed services to work diligently to harden their vehicles and equipment against the devastating effects of an electromagnetic pulse.
As a result, the troop carriers and armored personnel vehicles at Fort Dix were able to be dispatched to assist the National Guard in dealing with the social unrest that erupted in the major Atlantic Seaboard cities hit by the EMP.
Tyler was able to confirm that the localized EMP strike had had its greatest impact on a hundred-mile radius around Philadelphia that included the cities of Wilmington, Trenton, Reading, and Atlantic City.
Through careful monitoring of the emergency channels, they determined that the Cape May-Lewes Ferry was fully operational, although the wait times were significant. Travelers were trying to escape New Jersey and head farthe
r south in an effort to avoid the chaos along the Wilmington-Trenton corridor along I-95.
“Tyler, if the EMP attack only effected this isolated area, maybe we won’t have to leave our home,” Angela said hopefully. “We love it there, and the kids are comfortable. We have great careers with promising opportunities.”
“Babe, I wanna say that all of this doesn’t have anything to do with Virginia, but I’m afraid these other events lead me to believe otherwise. All public transportation in DC was shut down simultaneously. New York is in chaos, and as we heard the first responders say, dirty bombs were likely detonated around Times Square and other key landmarks like Grand Central Station, the Empire State Building, and the new World Trade Center.”
“It has to be terrorism, right? I mean, Russia or China wouldn’t pull crap like this.”
Tyler turned off the radio and stuffed it between his thigh and the console. “Agreed. Those guys wouldn’t mess around with this little stuff. They’d fire nukes. This is definitely terrorism, and the attacks were widespread. It’s not just where we are. Stuff happened across the country, both big and small.”
“Like Atlanta?” asked Angela.
“Yeah, can you imagine what it was like trying to get out of that stadium? What about Mobile and the plane crash? Too coincidental.”
Tyler glanced in the backseat to confirm the children were still sleeping. He leaned over to Angela and continued. “Babe, let’s get home and reassess everything. We’ll have access to the news networks, and we could even call the Haven to get their opinion. Ryan and Blair seemed like they’d provide us honest advice without sugarcoating the situation or unduly raising alarms, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I trust them,” replied Angela. “It’ll be a shock for the kids.”
Tyler chuckled and looked at them again. “Nah, I don’t think so. I think they’ll look at it as a new adventure. It’s like I read once in a novel. Every great adventure necessarily starts with running away from home.”
Angela nodded and pointed ahead. “Check it out! Pretty impressive.”
“Epic!” said J.C., whose little head had emerged from underneath a blanket so he could see.
“I thought you were asleep,” said Angela as she scooted up and craned her neck to look at J.C. in the rearview mirror.
“Nope, been awake the whole time,” said J.C. “And I’m not scared, are you, Kaycee?”
“Nope,” she replied.
Tyler turned around in his seat and reached for the blankets to reveal both kids’ faces. “You’re awake, too?”
“Yup, the whole time,” replied Kaycee. “I heard every word.”
Angela continued to glance at J.C. as she slowed the truck at the Cape May terminal. “How about you?”
“Me too, every word.” J.C. was grinning as if he’d just scored an extra Popsicle without his parents knowing it.
Angela started laughing. “That’s it. You’re both grounded.”
“Why?” protested Kaycee.
“Um, for … for … for unauthorized eavesdropping, right, Dad?”
Tyler smiled and nodded. “Absolutely, a heinous offense, in my opinion. Unauthorized eavesdropping carries a grounding punishment of twelve hours.”
“Sweet! I can handle that,” said J.C. with a chuckle. Once again, the two peas in a pod exchanged high fives.
Angela shook her head as she inched the truck along toward the next ferry. “Wow, Tyler. You are brutal when it comes to doling out the discipline.”
He smiled and sat back in his seat. “Yup, that’s why I’m the beloved parent.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Congress Heights
Washington, DC
They began the conversation with the customary New Year’s well-wishes. Cipollone, the lead attorney fighting the attempt to oust the president via the Twenty-Fifth Amendment, never stopped working. Like Hayden, the man was dedicated to his profession and, most importantly, his clients. But the events of New Year’s Eve changed the dynamic in their approach to the president’s defense.
“Blount, I’ll get right to the point,” he bellowed into the phone. He was riding in a vehicle, and the traffic noise came through loud and clear. “I’m on my way to the White House now. The Chief of Staff has put out a 9-1-1 for an all hands on deck in the Oval, sans the president.”
“Sir, I believe—” Hayden was about to caution her boss when he cut her off.
“Do you remember when Rahm Emanuel made the comment in ’08 that one should never let a good crisis go to waste? Do you remember that?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Cipollone interrupted, ignoring Hayden’s attempt to speak, which was unlike him. The street-noise levels were at a fever pitch as horns blared and people were shouting in the background. “If the president chooses, and it’s certainly his prerogative, to declare martial law, the Supreme Court would be forced into recess for a considerable amount of time, or at least beyond the inauguration. Blount? Can you hear this? It’s chaos!”
Hayden raised her voice. “Sir! You can’t advise the president on this. You have to be able to maintain a level of plausible deniability, or we might be conflicted off the case.”
“Blount, the president is looking to us for advice. That’s our job.”
“But, sir, the implementation of the continuity-of-government plan is clearly within the president’s purview. However, because a suspension of proceedings at the Supreme Court is a necessary result, we have to maintain a certain autonomy or independence from the decision-making process. Otherwise, opposing counsel will accuse our firm of suggesting the extraordinary action of declaring martial law as a means to protect the president legally.”
“Look out!” Cipollone screamed into the phone. He regained his composure and returned to the call. “He would be delaying the case, not stopping it altogether.”
“Yes, sir, legally speaking, that’s true. However, as his political advisors pointed out, pushing the Court proceedings beyond the inauguration will have a profound impact on public opinion. Once he puts his hand on the Bible and raises his right hand, that imagery will send a message to the public that he was duly elected by the people. Support for the Twenty-Fifth Amendment attempt will wane, especially from those on the right who pushed it.”
Cipollone didn’t respond immediately, but Hayden knew he was still there by the noise being emitted through the phone line. Finally, he spoke. “I can’t even go to the White House to explain my position. The mere fact my name appears on the White House visitors’ log will raise questions. An exchange of phone calls is one thing, sitting in on a conference call with the president to debate invoking martial law is another.”
“I agree, sir,” said Hayden, with a sigh of relief. She admired her boss and his passion for protecting the president, but as was the case with most attorneys, he looked at things through the prism of the law. Whether a particular case impacted a business’s operation, or the emotional toll a divorce took on a family, or the political machinations of a president, an attorney’s job was to provide legal advice, and only an empathetic lawyer understood the case from the client’s point of view.
Hayden, who disdained politics, understood people. She had also studied this president. While most politicians focused on re-election, the president had to focus on self-preservation. The average politician fought to win at the ballot box. This president had to fight the court of public opinion and a never-ending barrage of congressional investigations, many of which had criminal implications.
He wasn’t an attorney, but he certainly was street-smart. The president didn’t require her firm’s advice to understand how he would benefit from invoking the powers afforded him by Directive 51 and an accompanying martial law declaration.
She disconnected the call and flopped backwards on the couch. The scenes on every major television network depicted major cities in chaos. Some people were frightened. Others were simply opportunistic thugs looking to take advantage of a weakness in the system w
hen law enforcement was stretched too thin.
Hayden, however, was waiting for the third element to show themselves.
The anarchists.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Cortland Residence
Carlen-Midtown Neighborhood
Mobile, Alabama
Cort led Handsome Dan into the living room to join Hannah on the sofa. He tried to keep his composure and not let on that there was any kind of problem. “Hey, ladies, did an English bulldog win this year’s best in show?”
“No,” replied a dejected Hannah. “It was some kind of dog called a fricassee.”
Meredith laughed and wrapped her arm around her daughter’s neck. Cort wasn’t exactly sure what a fricassee was, but obviously it wasn’t a dog.
“Hannah, a fricassee is a food dish. You know, like chicken fricassee. It’s a stew with white wine and vegetables.”
“What kind of dog won?” asked Cort.
“It was a bichon frise,” replied Meredith in her best French accent. “It’s a small breed in—”
Hannah interrupted her mother’s explanation. “Daddy, it’s a stupid poodle. A white fluff ball that shouldn’t even count as a dog.”
“I vote we fricassee the poodle!” shouted Cort as he raised his right arm in the air. Handsome was in agreement, letting out two hearty gruffs to join in the celebratory pronouncement.
Mommy buzzkill intervened. “Nobody’s gonna fricassee a poodle, or a bichon frise.”
After a few more jokes about poodles and stewpots, Cort looked back toward his study to encourage Meredith to go with him. She picked up on the nod of his head and left Hannah and Handsome on the sofa to discuss why he should enter next year’s AKC beauty contest.
Meredith slowly closed the door behind her. “What did you find out?”
